


Darkest Days and Coldest Shadows

by TheDarkestShadow



Category: Guardians of Childhood & Related Fandoms, Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: All of the Guardians are concerned for Jack's mental state, Awkward Conversations, Awkward HandHolding, Even Pitch is concerned for Jack's Mental state, Eventual Sex, M/M, Mentions of Book Canons, Pitch is a stubborn ass, Reconciliation, Recovery, Slow Build, Trust Issues, needy villian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestShadow/pseuds/TheDarkestShadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say time heals all wounds. They also say nothing about broken minds and aching souls.</p><p>Perhaps a little ice can soothe the pain.</p><p>---------</p><p>Set after the events of the movie, Pitch begins to awake and recovery from his downfall. It's a slow process, filled with relapsing and questioning of his mind's state. He strives for normal though, whatever that is. A slow building Blackice fanfiction. There will be smut later on, and mentions of darker themes with Pitch's memories.<br/>Rated expicted for later chapters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Drip, Drip, Drip 

The only sound that broke the darkness of the twisting, underground maze. Drips of water, coming from the patchy and crumbling ceiling. The place was no longer the magnificent, sprawl of twisting stairs, dead ends, and polished iron cages. It was crumbling the walls chipping away with erosion and being covered by dark grown moss. Leaves blew in from holes in the defenses gathering and piling up in corners. A heavy layer of dust sat on the golden globe, dulling the lights that still dared to shine. 

Drip, Drip, Drip

It must have been raining. Between the drips, there was the was the faintest pitter-patter sound. Of drops of water tapping into the earth and settling between the soil. Birds shifted in trees, ruffling their feathers to rid them of water, and squirrels hide into the knotholes and crevices of trees.  
Much like these creatures, the master of that decaying domain was hidden away. Though like the leaves, he choose a darkened corner to hide his shame.  
Trembling fingers carded through inky hair, flinching away from spots that were bruised and raised with swelling. The action itself was comforting, reminding the fallen King of his mother all those years ago; It was just what his fingers came across that made his stomach lurch and roll in a rather unpleasant manner.  
He had been trapped down here for nearly five years. 

At first, he did what any other prisoner would do. 

He fought against his guards -The Nightmares that he once commanded- and scrambled for a way back into the world. He swore he would take his revenge, and dreamed up elaborate ways to disembowel the Guardians and the children they yearned to protect. He thought of the ways he could cast the world back into the gruesome darkness he so desired.  
Though the only world that had been getting darker was his own. 

Day in and day out, it was the same thing.The shadowmancer never slept, never needed to eat, never got a break from the living hell he had been banished into. The nightmares, for the first couple years, patrolled the halls of the cavern, making sure he didn't make a step out of line.

When he stopped getting up, stopped trying, they left him be. 

He wasn't sure what was worse; When they came after him, or when he was left to his own thoughts.  
His world had fallen apart, leaving him with doubts and a hallowed feeling in his chest. Where fear once thrummed life into his shriveled heart, there was nothing. No buzz of power, no tingling of adrenaline, no nothing. Just empty, empty, blackness.  
Inside his head as no better. Voices, not always his own, whispered their seeds of self loathing. Explaining how he could have done better, what he could have done instead.  
What if. You could have. You should have.

All the mistakes, all the possibilities, swirling in his head. The shadowmancer wished he could sleep, to black out for a couple hours and enjoy the silence it had to offer. But even that small mercy was out of his reach. 

If it wasn't the doubting thoughts, it was faces.

Emily Jane, smiling sweetly, only for her face to twist into one of a fearling, mocking laughter pouring from her blackened lips. His late wife, eyes kind and dimples in her cheeks, before the flesh would rot away and the bones would grind into dust.  
Members of his crew, ones he had slain with his own hands. When his eyes closed, he could still hear their screams, still hear the blood gurgle up in their throats as they died.  
Even Jack Frost showed up once or twice. His impish smile twisted up with malice, and eyes narrowed with his unique smugness. His voice would brag about how Pitch was pathtic, beaten by a mere child, and not even crafty enough to keep the 300 year old winter spirit at bay. He wasn't even good enough to draw him to his side.

Pitch was quick to block out that Guardian's face.

Drip, Drip, Drip

So in silence he stayed, eyes pressed closed and hands twined into dirty locks of hair, waiting for something -anything- to change. He wasn't even sure what he was waiting for at this point.

 

Something to save him, he liked to think.


	2. Books and Time Bidding

Pitch Black detested the cold. 

Well, in all honesty, it wasn't minded so terribly seeing the deathly, freezing temperatures of space he lived in for the better part of his existence. But here on Earth, it was simply awful. Wet and biting, with the wind pushing the chills into one’s very bones and leaving lingering frost for days.   
Or at least that’s what the Shadowmancer assumed, with the way mortals hunched over and pulled heir coats tight around bowed shoulders.  
He couldn’t feel the cold himself, not anymore. His body had long stopped reacting to hot and cold, unless the extreme of either. 

He was just bias now.

The way it crawl into his mind, aching out from the walls and numbing his thoughts and process. It was hard to recover from such a fall when your brain seemed frozen in a certain state.

Broken, abused, cracked.

Another year had passed. Or perhaps it was two? It was hard to tell, when your own thoughts swirled and skipped away from you like leaves picked up in a fierce wind. All he knew was it was winter again, and the snow muffled the sounds of the world up above.   
That was the only thing he liked about the cold. The silence it brought, and the way it would blanket the world. It made him feel less alone, in a sort of way. He could pretend he was the last person alive. 

It helped. Somehow.

He was able to stand now. Wandering aimlessly trough the halls of his 'home'. Though in most homes, you didn't flinch at the smallest sound, or imagine horse whines and hooves trampling. No, no sane person did that. 

But was Pitch ever in his right mind? Kozmotis had been. He had been strong, fearless, sailing through the clusters of stars without a seconds hesitation.   
Pitch had been like that. Once. Back when he started out. When hoards of nightmare men flanked his sides and power thrummed in his veins. No worries of any Guardians or a boy with a icy touch. Just himself, his nightmares, and anything else he desired. The world was at his fingertips.

Oh, how times had changed.

He spent most of his time reading. Pitch owned hundred upon near thousands of books on a variety of topics. History, art, poetry, fiction and facts. Anything and near everything was bound between some tome in the many hollowed out and cavernous rooms. It was good for him, to loose his thoughts between the pages. To remember past battles and see them from a different view point. He would touch upon his history, nearly cracking a smile when he knew the books had information wrong.

He had been there, after all.

Most of the time, the fallen King of shadows and fear tried to to think about the ones who had put him back in his place. But there were times, aching times where he would wonder what it would be like to be amongst their ranks.   
Trading war stories with the loud, bolstering Russian man, and laughing over lewd Russian humor which the others would only meet with puzzled gazes. Giving pointers to the stubborn rabbit and talking about the different brush strokes of all the great artists of the world. Bickering with the female of their group, and joking about how she must detest Halloween. Teaming up with the Sandman and spreading their dreams across the globe. There was always a need for a touch of fear among the sweetness. It kept children in line and indulging in their curiosity of what would happen if they did drink from the bottles under the sink. The fear of consequences and pain. 

Perhaps he could be.. He might be able to..

No. 

He had done far too much wrong to ever be able to be accepted into their ranks. Slaughtering, terrifying, possessing. Not one crime could easily be forgiven, if ever at all. He was alone in all of this.

Alone.

Far too often, he would catch himself with fingers curled around the edges of a book far too tightly and his eyes roaming the page but never absorbing the words. His thoughts were elsewhere, billowing and howling like the winds on that chilly Easter day. When his feet were numbed with a cold he couldn't feel and his heart was on his sleeve.

He liked to tell himself that he had been manipulating the boy of ice. That he was just preying on his fears of never finding a family or ever being seen. He knew it was a lie. You couldn't lie to yourself.  
But it was a balm against the sting of rejection. It soothed his wounded pride, even though it was him who risked it by opening up. It was Jack who lashed back and stung him with his blood freezing chill. 

It was Jack that looked concerned when that child cut through him, burning him raw with his disbelief. It was Jack who understood loneliness, and who could relate to the ancient being the best. Jack who had almost given him hope, and Jack who had snuffed it out.

Pitch Black detested that.

He detested the cold.


End file.
